


Burying a Friend

by 17stepstobakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Greg Lestrade to the Rescue, Hurt No Comfort, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, John is angry, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock is hurting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 19:54:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20159179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17stepstobakerstreet/pseuds/17stepstobakerstreet
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, finally returns to John Watson after two years of being "dead." John doesn't react the way Sherlock thought he would.





	Burying a Friend

_It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. What went wrong?_

Kneeling in front of John, Sherlock breathed deeply through his mouth, chest heaving. He brought his arm up to his face to wipe away copious amounts of blood before slamming it back down to the ground, supporting his torso that was starting to feel too heavy. John stood over Sherlock, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. Refusing to cower under John’s harsh gaze, Sherlock met his eyes and stared back just as hard, choosing to ignore the blood steadily flowing from his nose. 

John rubbed a hand over his face before quietly saying, “Well, I bet you didn’t see this coming, huh? I saw that smirk on your face. You expected me to welcome you with open arms, didn’t you? Well, guess what Sherlock? I’m not going to. You left me for two years. Two years.” Venom was starting to leak into his voice. Sherlock tried to ignore it. “I grieved, Sherlock. And you let me. I was suffering, and what did you do? Absolutely nothing. You-” John put a fist over his mouth and looked up to the ceiling. _His eyes are watery. He refuses to cry in front of me._

Sherlock kept his mouth shut and lowered his gaze, dripping blood from his nose on the floors of Baker Street. His breathing was starting to slow again, and his back wasn’t in so much pain anymore. _Don’t say anything Sherlock, this is what you deserve. He has every right to this._ John growled, and Sherlock could see his feet moving back and forth as he paced. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Have you run out of clever things to throw at me? Or are you actually feeling remorse? Are you scared I’m gonna rough you up more?” Sherlock, clenching his eyes shut, said nothing. After a few seconds of nothing, he felt John’s hands clench at his shirt collar, yanking him up to eye level.

Sherlock stumbled to get his feet under his sluggish body, clasping his hands around John’s wrists to steady himself. Focusing his gaze on John’s face after his head stopped swimming, Sherlock winced minutely at his expression. There were tears threatening to spill out of John’s eyes, and his jaw was clenched in anger. Sherlock averted his gaze from John’s and felt the grip on his shirt collar tighten slightly. The shirt rubbed roughly against his back, against the deeps cuts there, and he had to bite his lip to hide the pain. _Hold on just a little while longer, you can’t let him know._

“Sherlock,” John seethed through clenched teeth, his voice barely above a whisper, “why the fuck won’t you say anything to me?” At this, the tears finally rolled down his cheeks, leaving glistening trails behind them. Swearing softly to himself, John pushed Sherlock away to wipe angrily at his eyes, resuming his pacing across the floor of Baker Street. Sherlock, still unsteady on his feet, stumbled back until his knees hit the edge of his chair. He flailed a bit before falling ungracefully into his chair, putting pressure on the wounds covering his back. Sharply inhaling at the pain, he looked to John to gauge his reaction. He didn’t notice.

Gripping the arms of his chair, Sherlock hauled himself up to hunched-over a standing position. He was panting, and the arm that was holding him up was shaking, but he would not sit back down. The _pain._ He couldn’t take it. But he would; he had to. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth before breathing out a soft, “John.” Sherlock couldn’t see John’s muscles tense under his thick jumper, but he was fairly certain that they did, for he was no longer pacing back and forth, and he looked like an animal with raised hackles. He was still, head hanging down, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. His fist was clenching and unclenching, a sure tell: he was fighting down fury so he could hear what Sherlock wanted to say.

Standing up slowly as to not put more strain on his back, Sherlock carefully shuffled his way over to John, whetting his dry lips with his tongue. “John, I’m sorry. I have no excuse. I-” A hard backhand to the face cut him off, and he fell back to the ground. Sherlock threw his hands behind his back to catch himself. He could feel the stitches in his back pulling in the position that he was in, so he shifted slightly, trying to release the strain. Feeling an angry gaze burning into his chest, Sherlock looked up to see John seething down at him, avoiding his gaze. John’s breath was coming in heavy gasps, and his bottom lip was drawn tightly between his front teeth. Tears were no longer freely running down his cheeks, but his face was red and the salty tracks of the other tears were still there.

“So,” John bit out in a shaky voice. He looked up to the ceiling as more tears gathered in his eyes before taking a deep breath and saying, with a steadier voice, “not even the great Sherlock Holmes has an excuse for me, huh? Are you sure you weren’t, I don’t know, off saving the world or something, like you always are?” John paused and waited for an answer. Sherlock said nothing. He couldn’t. All he could do was meet John’s gaze. John sucked in a sharp breath and continued, “That’s what I thought. Did you even think of me in those two years you were gone?” John’s voice was now a whisper. “Did you ever think about the pain I was in? You were my best friend Sherlock, I. . . I was nothing without you.” The tears spilled onto John’s cheeks again, but this time, he didn’t wipe them away. He just stared at Sherlock as he towered over him once again, bottom lip quivering.

Sherlock felt his heart squeeze in his chest, a pain much greater than any physical pain that he was in at the moment. But he wouldn’t let himself look away from John’s gaze, even for a second. He deserved the strong ache in his chest that would stay with him even after John left. Speaking of. . . _why isn’t John leaving?_ John was still lording over Sherlock, eyebrows furrowed and fists clenched. His eyes hadn’t moved from Sherlock’s, but he wasn’t looking at him anymore. Sherlock could tell he was lost inside his head, so he ran his tongue over his lips once more before saying, “John.” When he heard his name being called, John startled out of his mind, face going slack for just a second. He seemed to remember what was happening, however, and soon he was thrown back into his angry demeanor.

“John, I want you to know that I’m terribly sorry and that-” Sherlock paused suddenly, swallowing hard to get rid of the lump in his throat before continuing, “you can do your worst to me. It’s what I deserve. I won’t fight back.” As he spoke, he carefully shifted his weight back onto his knees until he was kneeling in front of John once again. Sherlock heard John inhale a shaky breath, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain. When a few seconds passed and it didn’t come, Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly as he lifted his head to look John Watson in the face. The latter man was almost shaking with rage from what Sherlock could tell, and he was back to staring at nothing, lost inside his head. Except, this time he shook himself out of it and gave Sherlock another hard slap across the face. Sherlock accepted the sting and said nothing.

“An apology won’t fucking bring back those two years of my life, Sherlock,” John growled, grabbing him by his shirt collar once again to yank him up to his full height. Sherlock barely had time to react before John was slamming him into the wall. Clenching his teeth and closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the pain running through his back. He could feel the stitches starting to pull more, and he started willing them to hold strong, to hold until John had his way with him and left Baker Street. “‘I’m sorry’ won’t take away the grief I felt. None of this will take away the nightmares, Sherlock. Do you know how many times I relived that day? Countless times I watched, helpless, as you fell from Bart’s. I had to watch as your blood seeped out of your broken body and onto the pavement. I wept, Sherlock. An apology can’t take that pain away from me.” 

John pressed harder, and Sherlock inhaled sharply, unable to prevent any noises from escaping. His back was really starting to hurt like hell, and that fact didn’t plan on keeping itself hidden from John Watson for much longer. John’s eyes flickered; Sherlock knew that he heard him. Sherlock bit his lip and leveled his gaze at John, trying to cover up the pain in his eyes with defiance. John, instead of slapping him again, took a few steps back and stared at Sherlock, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. _What is he. . . oh. He’s waiting for me._ Closing his eyes for a few seconds, Sherlock took a deep breath before stepping away from the wall, careful not to let his knees buckle under him. John took a step closer to Sherlock, and the latter caught himself just before he could flinch at the movement.

John put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed tightly, his nails digging into Sherlock’s skin. He stayed there for a few seconds before swinging his shin right into the back of Sherlock’s knees, knocking him to the floor in one swift movement. Now behind Sherlock, John pinned one of his arms behind his back and leaned over him until Sherlock’s forehead was pressed to the dusty carpet of their sitting room floor. Sherlock felt some of the stitches on his back start to rip, and he cried out slightly. John just pressed harder on his back, ripping even more. Sherlock’s breathing was beginning to come in heavy gasps, whimpering with every exhale, and he was starting to tremble. He knew that John could hear him, that he could feel him shaking, but he was ignoring it. _Please, please, please don’t let the blood seep through my shirt,_ Sherlock pleaded in his mind.

“Look at you, the great Sherlock Holmes reduced to a bloody, trembling mess,” John said, articulating the last word with an elbow pressed hard into Sherlock’s back. Sherlock, raising his head off the floor as much as he could, let out a long, pained groan at the pressure. He couldn’t see John’s face, but he had a gut feeling that he was smiling his, terrifying, murderous smile that Sherlock loved so much. “You had no right to leave me Sherlock, but now that you’re back, I’m going to. . .” John trailed off and released some of his pressure on Sherlock. _Fuck,_ Sherlock thought, tensing up, _the blood._ Sherlock took the opportunity to catch his breath as much as he could, enjoying the slight relief of pain on his back. He let out a soft groan when he felt John slowly move away from him, getting rid of most of the pull of his skin against the stitches.

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone cold and emotionless, “your back.” Sherlock just shook his head and groaned again, the pain in his back getting worse and worse. John, it seemed, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Within seconds, he moved to crouch in front of Sherlock and took his chin into his hand, squeezing just tight enough to force Sherlock to meet his gaze. “Sherlock,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, “let me see your back. Or I’m going to have to force you to let me look at it.” Sherlock let out a soft whimper and shook his head again, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. John growled, reaching towards the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. When he unbuttoned them all, he carefully removed the shirt from Sherlock’s body before standing up to take a look at his back. The hitch in John’s breath and the sound of his shirt hitting the floor made Sherlock wince.

Sherlock trembled when he heard the ‘thunk’ of John dropping to his knees behind him. His muscles tensed and he let out a strangled sound as he chose not to turn his head and look at Waston’s face. He was getting ready for it, the feel of fingers pushing and digging into the cuts on his back. John wanted to cause him pain, and that was the best way to do it at the moment. But a minute passed, and then two, and John never laid a finger on Sherlock’s back. After another minute, Sherlock heard a shaky breath behind him, and then a quiet, but still angry, voice saying, “When did this happen? Who did it?” Sherlock clenched his fists, fighting to keep himself from being swept away in the bad memory. Instead, he breathed deeply for a few seconds, trying to calm the shakiness in his body.

“I was taken hostage while I was gone. I- I can’t quite remember why, or who it was. All I remember was being chained up in this cold, wet place. Every day, two men came down and beat me, sometimes whipped me, trying to get information from me. I didn’t have it, of course, what help could I have given them? So I endured it. I was only rescued a few days ago, by Mycroft. I stayed with him just long enough to get cleaned up and stitched up, and then I left to find you. It hurts, John,” Sherlock said, letting his strong facade slip finally. “It hurts so much.” His sentence ended in a soft whimper. If it had been any louder, he might not have heard the rustling of clothes behind him. _He’s. . . shifting? Getting something? No, that’s not right, he’s standing up._

Sherlock’s suspicions were confirmed when John passed in front of Sherlock’s gaze, reaching for his coat as he neared the stairs. Sherlock wanted to cry out to him, to say _where are you going, please stay John, I’m frightened. I need you, I’ll tell you everything that happened, please, just don’t leave me alone like this_, but he bit his lip and kept it in. He deserved this, and he was not about to let himself get out of this punishment. John, hastily slipping his coat on, wasn’t looking at Sherlock. His lip was between his teeth, and he seemed to be holding back a fresh round of tears. When Sherlock whimpered, John turned slightly and looked at him finally, trying to hold his composure. He managed a small frown and a slight furrow to his brows. Sherlock could tell he didn’t really want to leave him there like that, but why would he stay? He obviously didn’t care for the detective anymore, or at least that’s what Sherlock thought. 

“I wanted to cause you pain, Sherlock, so much pain for all the pain you caused me. But, it seems you’re in enough as it is. My doctor side of me won’t let me harm another hair on your head while you look like that but. . . the side of me that suffered for years doesn’t want me to help you,” John said quietly, his frown deepening. “Goodbye, Sherlock. Try not to bleed out.” The last sentence was said with a venom that was not entirely false, and John articulated it with a door slam. It took a few seconds for the shock of John leaving to go away, and a few more for Sherlock to come to the realization that he was completely and utterly alone in Baker Street. He wanted to pound his fists on the ground and shout, he wanted to scream and cry, but his logical mind knew that it wouldn’t fix anything. He settled for grinding his teeth together and letting out a forceful breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds. _Now, I have something I need to do._

Sherlock pushed himself onto his hands and knees with a minimal amount of pain and started crawling slowly across the floor, making his way over to his Belstaff hanging near the door. His phone was in the pocket of his coat, and he needed it. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew calling someone to come help him was of the utmost importance, and it couldn’t wait for much longer. Plucking his phone out of his coat pocket, Sherlock sat back on his legs, hunched over. Trying not to let his hands shake too much, Sherlock typed a familiar phone number in before pressing the call button and holding the phone up to his ear. His hand shook despite his efforts to stop it, and he almost growled at it. The phone rang twice in his ear before he heard someone pick up. A panicked voice from the other side of the call said, “You never call. What’s going on?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. _You never change, do you Lestrade?_

Taking in a shaky breath, Sherlock said, “Lestrade, I need you at Baker Street. No backup, just you. This problem doesn’t require anyone else. Bring a medical kit if you would, I don’t think that we have one handy. Take your time.” Lestrade let out a long string of curses, probably from both the mention of a medical kit and the shakiness that was beginning to take over Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock internally cursed himself for sounding so weak and tightened his grip on his cell phone, making his hand tremble more. 

“Like hell I’m going to take my time! I’ll be over in five minutes Sherlock Holmes, and you better be alive when I get there!” Lestrade growled, hanging up his end of the call before Sherlock could get another word out. Sherlock hung up his end of the call a few seconds later and slid his phone across the floor, not watching to see where it ended up. At that moment, he was hit with a wave of exhaustion, and it was all he could do to stop himself from collapsing on the floor. He quickly, but carefully, lowered himself to the ground instead, as to not cause his back any more pain than necessary. He laid there, cheek pressed into the dirty carpet, for what might have felt like hours to someone with a brain less advanced than his; to him, it had only felt like four minutes and thirty-five seconds. Well, so far anyway.

At the five-minutes-and-seventeen-seconds mark, Sherlock heard the slamming of the front door and the thundering of Lestrade scrambling up the seventeen steps to his flat. Lestrade burst into the flat at five minutes and twenty-two seconds, and immediately let out a string of swear words. Sherlock heard a ‘thunk’ and presumed that Lestrade had dropped the medical kit in shock. He supposed he could reason why; who wouldn’t drop whatever they were holding if they saw a friend of theirs, lying on the floor of their flat with bleeding gashes all over their back? The long rope of profanities falling out of Lestrade never stopped, a strong tell that he was panicking and didn’t quite know what to do. A rustle of fabric indicated that Greg threw off his coat onto a chair or sofa. Sherlock turned his head to see Greg stooping down to pick up the medical kit, eyes never leaving Sherlock.

“Ah, Lestrade, wonderful. You were twenty-two seconds late, I was starting to think that you weren’t going to show up. If you could please,” Sherlock said in a strained voice, trying to push himself off the floor, “help me off the floor and into the bathroom, I would greatly appreciate it. Bring the medical kit as well.” Lestrade rushed over to Sherlock and hefted him up by the arm. Lestrade took most of Sherlock’s weight, which Sherlock was quite thankful for. His head was lolling back and forth, and his legs felt boneless and unreliable. The two men stumbled to the bathroom together, and once there, Lestrade carefully lowered Sherlock to the floor and sat behind him on the lid of the tub, rolling up his sleeves and getting ready to stitch up Sherlock’s back.

“Jesus Sherlock, you’ve been back for a day and you’ve already almost passed out from loss of blood! Why didn’t you call me sooner? If you had waited much longer, you could’ve passed out and we wouldn’t have found you. You could’ve died, Sherlock,” Lestrade said seriously, softly running a damp cloth over Sherlock’s back to wash away the excess amount of blood that had gathered there. Sherlock hissed in a breath every time it brushed over the ripped, sensitive skin of his back, but he welcomed the pain. His brain was starting to go haywire, and everything was starting to really hit him. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore it, scrambling together an answer for Greg as a distraction.

“I ran into some trouble while I was gone. I got roughed up a little bit. Mycroft had to get someone to stitch my back up. I had an. . . unexpected run-in with John. He was quite angry at me and wanted to rough me up a little bit too. He stopped and left when he saw my back. I called as soon as he left the flat,” Sherlock hissed in another breath and dug his nails into his palm as soon as Greg started to disinfect the cuts on his back. The sting was a sharp one, and Lestrade apologized quickly for it. Quickly waving the apology off, Sherlock clenched his jaw and waited for the question he knew Lestrade was going to ask him. The room was quiet for a few minutes until Lestrade made a confused sound in the back of his throat.

“Wait, you said John was here? And he saw your back and didn’t stitch it up?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock only nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak. “Bloody hell, he’s mad at you, isn’t he?” Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes and come back with a snappy remark. He wanted to brush it off as if he didn’t care if John was mad at him or not. But hearing it out loud physically hurt him. He mentally scolded himself for the tears welling up in his eyes at Lestrade’s remark. _This isn’t worth tears,_ Sherlock said to himself. _Nothing is worth your tears. John hates you, so what? You’ve survived without him before, you can do it again._ He tried to listen to his mind’s reasonable words, but there was a little voice, buried deep, screaming _No! No, you can’t live with yourself if John hates you. You need him. You need him as much as the air you breathe. You’ll die if he doesn’t come back to you._ The smaller voice got louder and louder until Sherlock could take it no longer. This is not what he brought himself up to be.

The Holmes children found out, from a very young age, that emotions did absolutely nothing for them. Sure, it felt nice to be happy occasionally, but it was worthless really. Emotions only made life harder for them. They were ridiculed at school most of the time for their vast intelligence, and what did emotions do? They made it worse, they made them feel bad for being who they were. Sherlock, in particular, loathed feeling emotions. They were unnecessary to him. So, one day, he just. . . stopped. He stopped feeling, stopped crying, stopped everything to do with emotions. He hadn’t truly cried for at least nineteen years, and he was perfectly content with that fact. But John Watson, that wonderful ex-soldier that barged into his life with an air of confidence, broke down that wall brick by brick, and now Sherlock was hit with a wave of emotions he had been trying to repress for the last fifteen minutes. He hated the whirlwind in his mind and hated the weakness that came along with it. The fingernails digging into his forearms had nothing to do with the physical pain, not anymore.

“Lestrade, get out,” Sherlock said, his voice strained from the effort he was making to keep his emotions locked in until Lestrade left him alone. He would never live it down if he broke down now; Greg would probably go and brag to Donovan and Anderson that he saw Sherlock Holmes, the high-functioning sociopath himself, sob himself to a sniffling mess on his bathroom floor because John didn’t like him. After a few seconds, it was evident to Sherlock that Lestrade was making no effort to get up and leave. Sherlock knew that he was being ignored, and he didn’t appreciate it one bit. “Lestrade,” Sherlock said, louder this time, “Get. Out.” Greg cleared his throat; he could obviously hear Sherlock’s pleas. _Why isn’t he listening to me?_ The torrent in Sherlock’s head got louder and stronger, so much so that it was starting to drown out the pain of the needle piercing his skin. All he could hear was _John John John John John_ and he couldn’t stand it anymore. He slammed his fist on the ground and let out a growl, turning his head to sneer at Lestrade. “Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted, his voice cracking. “Out! Now!” He could feel the tears gathering in his eyes and he hated it, he hated feeling this weak, he hated Lestrade, and he hated himself for letting this happen.

“Bloody hell Sherlock, stop it! I’m not leaving until your back is patched up, so would you shut up and stop moving around so much? God, I’m trying to help you, you insolent bastard,” Lestrade said back, finishing the stitching on one slice before turning his attention to the next one. Sherlock, now trembling under Lestrade's careful hands, bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying not to give in to the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. _You’re not supposed to care, you’re not supposed to feel like this. Why did you let John do this to you? Why. . . why doesn’t John care about you anymore? You tried so hard. All you were doing was trying to protect him. You tried so hard for him._ The pressure in Sherlock’s head was steadily building up to an unbearable level, pushing against his skull with the weight of everything he had never felt since his childhood. Pain, regret, sadness, anger, _heartbreak._ Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore; his restraints snapped.

He had expected himself to scream out in agony, to vocalize the immense pain he felt from the ripping of his heart in two. He wanted to punch the ground, to curse and scream until his throat was raw and he could scream no more. Instead, he opened his mouth and let out a low, melancholy moan, filling the small room with all of his grief. All at once, he broke down completely. The tears finally spilled out of his eyes and onto his pallid cheeks, leaving tear tracks behind them. Wiping away the dampness on his cheeks, Sherlock started sobbing and babbling. “He left me Lestrade, he left me. I can’t live without him. He kept me sane and healthy, he kept me happy. What do I do without him? I can’t do this. I need him Lestrade, I need him.” Sherlock could feel Lestrade’s gaze on the back of his neck, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel shameful. He knew he was overreacting, he knew that he was being silly. But he couldn’t stop, and the pressure wasn’t going away. Caring wasn’t something he was up to at the moment.

The needle plunging into his back was background noise to the torrent spinning in his mind, so he barely registered that it stopped a few minutes later. He couldn’t feel as Greg rubbed a disinfecting salve over the cuts, and he couldn’t hear him packing the supplies up. The world was a complete blur as Lestrade carefully helped Sherlock up and led him to the living room, setting him down on his chair. Sherlock, gaining a moment of clarity, shot a glare at Lestrade. He already saw too much, and he didn’t need to stay with Sherlock any longer. Greg gave Sherlock a pitying gaze before slinging his jacket back on and opening the door to 221B Baker Street. Before he left, he turned around, met Sherlock’s gaze, and said, “Sherlock, I know it seems like it’s all over, but. . . he’ll come around. He’ll start missing you too, and he’ll come back. Just hold on.” With one more sad look to Sherlock, Greg left. Sherlock, slipping back into his raging river of emotions, slid to the floor until he was once again kneeling on the rickety wooden floor of his flat. Tears started flowing down his cheeks again, and he let them, not bothering to wipe them away. Baker Street was quieter and lonelier than it had ever been; there was only a crying, broken man left on the floor, wishing that he had done more to keep John Watson, his best friend, around.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this! I put a lot of time and effort into it, if I'm being honest, and I would appreciate a comment or a kudos!


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